Faker
by Biigoh
Summary: There is nothing wrong with being a fake... or is there?


So I entered a weekly (every saturday) speed-ficcing on TFF and SB, with a duration of 4 hours to do up a fic.

I did a Fate/Something character piece this week. ^_^;

Copyrights : Nasuverse like Fate/Zero, Fate/Stay Night, Fate/Extra, Fate/Whatever belongs to Nasu

Title : **Faker**  
Theme : **Counterfeit**

_Mafia types printing currency in smoke filled rooms, small time criminals making "change for a twenty", an artist putting the finishing touches on a new Rembrandt and a legitimate businessman selling a product that doesn't exist to the board of directors. But it does not just apply to crime and theft. Counterfeiting is passing off a copy as real. Identities, documents, art, animals. And can't you counterfeit feelings? How about memories?_

_For this Iron Fic challenge, write a story about counterfeiting. It's your choice whether to show events from the counterfeiter's point of view, that of the victim, or a bystander. By all means, deceive the audience and play with the theme. There's more to counterfeiting than just forgery; it's a confidence game._

_Keywords are misdirection and fake. The challenge is made!_

Start time : 12:40 PST  
End time : 13:35 PST  
Edit/Post Time : 13:40 PST

* * *

Faker, he called himself.

He was no real hero despite giving the impression of such. He knew himself too well to permit such self-deceptions.

The hollowness within his existence might not have been visible to his father, to his family, to his friends. But it was there.

He could sense it.

An emptiness that he attempted to fill.

With knowledge.

Genius, some had called him upon meeting him, seeing his striving for knowledge. His in-depth attainment of such merely sealed their conceptualization of his outer form for them.

It brought him no satisfaction. Knowledge did not bring him joy nor filled that hollowness within his soul.

When it became clear to him that his striving brought him naught but dry dust in his mouth, he paused and thought about it.

He walked away from what he had been doing. The bewilderment of his peers was obvious.

He attempted to fill that emptiness another way.

He sought respite in romance. A woman, it was said, and partner in life was a fulfilling thing to have.

And yet, and yet... it bought nothing but more agony as that emptiness devoured his existence.

That smile of hers when she looked at him was nothing but a spike within his heart.

His daughter brought no respite, no bliss upon the parched desert that was his soul and existence.

The bleakness brought him to the point where he pondered walking away from everything.

To return his existence to the Lord and ask Why.

Why was he cursed with his suffering.

An emptiness that drank deeply of what others would consider pleasurable, leaving none for him. That he had known no joy in his life. That he had to suffer so.

And yet, and yet... at the nadir of his despair.

When she saw his suffering. His wife. His loving wife attempted to help him. To bring a measure of peace to his life.

She killed herself.

Sinned in the eyes of the Lord.

All to show him that compassion and empathy for others was within his capacity to experience.

A moment of joy. A single moment of joy filled him when he returned home and saw her corpse. That and the thought that he would have preferred to kill her himself.

He had an epiphany. That moment of clarity showed him for what he was.

He was no genius. No real priest. For a real priest would never have found joy in seeing pain and suffering in others.

He was a monster at heart, wearing the garments of holiness.

He was no real husband. For a real husband would have never found pleasure at seeing his wife dead.

He gave his daughter to his wife's family, citing a myriad of excuses. That they might care for her. That he had no time for a child as a priest. That looking at her brought pain to him in memory of his wife.

And yet, at the heart of it all... it was that she might be safe. From him.

Every moment he was with her, he resisted looking at his hands. To think on how... easy it would be to strangle her, to see her face express despair, horror and terror for him to savor.

No, it was better that way.

For he was no true father. For a real father would never think of such things, would never contemplate such a thing as the murder and death of his daughter.

And so, he found himself drifting in life.

He became an executor of the Church. It was there that he found pleasure in some measure. It was a guilty pleasure.

For it was here... that he found suffering.

Pain.

Torment.

Cutting down the enemies of humanity. And where would such be found but amongst their prey bringing terror, suffering and all the myriad torments of existence to humans?

Here he found joy in the suffering of others.

A shameful joy, it is true. But joy.

Schadenfreude, the germans called it. But such a thing was not good.

And so, he killed to protect mankind. Killed the sources of his pleasure. A slayer of monsters, magi and heretics.

To give others the capacity to stand in the sun and know joy in existence, the simple pleasures of knowing that they lived in the light of day and not tormented in the darkness of night.

For this, there were those who called him a hero.

But he knew better. He was no hero, no holy priest.

At best, he was just a faker. A counterfeit hero.

A monster clad in the armor of a false knight.

Always seeking something to fill that darkness within him.

That hollowness.

Then... one day, he met someone who thought him to fill that emptiness. That there was no shame in being what he was in truth.

A monster.

A sinner.

That if others could not see him for what he was, then... surely, it wasn't his fault when they thought him a counterfeit when their self-deceptions fell apart.

A false genius.

A fake hero.

But in truth, he was just a man who desired joy... just as anyone else would.


End file.
